


I'm the Stain on Your Shirt

by kelleigh (girlfromcarolina)



Series: SPN Kink Meme/Blindfold Fills [3]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Barebacking, Bottom Jensen, Dubious Consent, M/M, Object Penetration, Spanking, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, teacher misha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 11:30:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6801913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlfromcarolina/pseuds/kelleigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha, a teacher, discovers sixteen year-old Jensen drinking on school property late one night and decides to teach him a lesson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm the Stain on Your Shirt

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt on the spnkink_meme: _Misha, a teacher, discovers sixteen year-old Jensen drinking on school property late one night and decides to teach him a lesson._ All kinks were included in the original prompt *facepalm*
> 
> Why I picked this prompt is still a mystery to me. Beta, you ask? WHO WOULD WANT TO BETA THIS? No one, that's who.

Things change. It's one of Misha's many accepted life philosophies. Things are always changing: emotional things, physical things, things he has no control over. 

For instance, Misha used to think that walking through the wide, vaulted halls of Exeter Academy at night was one of the most bone-chilling experiences a person could have. Something about being all alone in a space meant for hundreds of students felt wrong. But that changed the longer he worked for the exclusive prep school. Now, Misha prefers his own lonely company, staying late to finish grading photography projects and setting up equipment, and wandering the very halls that used to freeze the blood in his veins. The quiet is peaceful and the emptiness is almost a relief after jam-packed days facing the gripes and aspirations of dozens of wealthy, entitled students, having to endure the youthful perfection of their bodies in close proximity. Misha rejoices in the solitude of late nights.

A light catches his attention, a soft glow where there should be none. Misha approaches carefully, peering through scratched glass on the door to one of the many art studios. He stands still, admiring the brave student staying long past propriety. The young man's features are a thing of beauty and complexity, drawing Misha's discerning eye. Angled cheekbones lend grace to the young face, full lips a sensuality beyond his adolescence. But Misha sees the student's strong gaze focused on the canvas in front of him as if willing it to reveal some secret. Misha laughs despite himself.

He's about to continue on his way, aware that he's been staring long enough to be as inappropriate as the student's trespass, but that's when he sees the bottle. Long-necked and brown, sitting perfectly in the dip of the teen's plush lower lip. Misha shakes off the sudden spike of _want_ and replaces it with disappointment.

He lets himself into the room.

"It's one thing to be here after hours, but drinking on school property?" Misha shakes his head, face impassive as the teenager wobbles and nearly falls off of his stool. The near-empty beer bottle is not so lucky, slipping from slim fingers and clattering to the linoleum. "Now, I think we have a problem."

"Oh god, I was just..."

Misha cuts him off with a stern look. "What's your name, young man?"

"Jensen, sir. Jensen Ackles."

"Alright, Jensen. What gave you the idea that it was okay to sneak into the school with beer?"

Jensen looks stupefied, eyelashes fluttering. Aware that there's no right answer for the teenager to come up with, Misha stands and waits, arms-crossed in a picture of patience. He knows he's far from the most intimidating teacher at the school; he's the mild-mannered guy who teaches photography and sculpture to anyone looking to pick up an extra art credit. Misha is private and subdued, keeping his personal life and deeply personal secrets away from the nosy faculty. But Jensen continues to be horrified by his mere presence. That fluffs Misha's feathers, so to speak.

"I can't just let this go, young man." He means to call Jensen by name, but the way he purrs young man just slips out. His carefully controlled personality is splintering; all it takes to shred his control is a wide-eyed stare and the devil hiding in the corner of Jensen's lips.

"I know," Jensen mutters, hanging his head. The bottle has rolled to rest against his shoes. "It's just that I'm behind on this project and I needed more time than what I get in class, and I'm so sorry for sneaking in, but the door was unlocked so I thought it might be okay."

"You know, I was ready to let the whole thing slide. I know what it's like to be consumed with a project." Misha sighs. "But I can't forgive the drinking."

Jensen bites his lip. Misha silently promises that he'll punish himself twice as hard tonight for even thinking about taking advantage of the teenager, no matter how tempting Jensen's distress might be. He forces a lopsided smile.

"Maybe they'll let you spend your detentions somewhere you can paint."

"Detentions? That's all?"

"I may be a teacher, Jensen, but I remember being young." _And beautiful, and naive like you_. "Detentions seem fair since this is your first offense, right?"

"Right."

Looking for a diversion, Misha walks towards Jensen and his canvas, picking up Jensen's heavy sketchbook from the table beside him. "You do good work," he remarks, flipping through a few pages before folding the cover closed. "Keep it up and don't get in any more trouble, young man."

"I won't, Mr. Collins," Jensen says as he stands.

Misha tries to lighten the atmosphere with a laugh. "I'm glad I don't have to introduce myself. Now, clean up and get going."

Jensen bends to pick up the beer bottle and the sight of his young, firm ass is temptation beyond reason. A greater man might be able to resist but Misha is not a great man – he’s a man with secrets, with twists and turns and back alleyways into which no one should venture alone – and his arm is swinging before he can stop, bringing the sketchbook down hard on Jensen's ass.

"What!"

Misha wants to say he's sorry in the wake of Jensen's exclamation, that he doesn't know what's come over him, but he knows full well. Embarrassment stains Jensen's cheeks and Misha can't resist doing it again. Jensen's posture snaps rigid, his spine an iron rod under thin gray cotton.

"Mr. Collins," he gasps. "Please!"

"Please?" Not _stop_. Such a small distinction but it makes all the difference in the world to Misha.

Again and again, Misha brings the sketchbook down, Jensen's spine dipping lower with each blow. Jensen's almost doubled over, hands spread on his knees for leverage, ass turned to Misha's eyes. The back of his thighs are trembling; Misha pulls him gently to the left, forcing Jensen's upper body over the paint-smeared table. It's clinical at first, as if Misha's hands are acting independently from the rest of his body. Nothing past the slap of the notebook on fabric until Misha needs to hear more.

Jensen backs into every hit, full lips parted and panting against the grain of the tabletop. He mumbles – maybe a protest, maybe not – when Misha tugs his jeans down. Misha admires the stretch of cotton briefs over hot skin before those are pulled down too.

"No..."

"No?" Misha questions, slapping Jensen once, lightly. "Isn't this better than detention, Jensen?" To his own ears, his voice sounds deeper and more authoritative, the added gravitas of lust. Commands come easily to his tongue. "Now stay still for me and your punishment will go a lot faster."

Jensen makes a garbled noise at the word _punishment_. Misha tries to tell Jensen what he's done wrong but the lies don't make it past his lips – Misha is the one in the wrong right now. There's no lesson in this, it's punishment for its own sake.

Misha loves the resiliency of young skin, the supple way it bounces back from the impact of his palm. Jensen's certainly not obeying his orders, writhing around on the table top, fingers clawing through the wet paint and marking up the dark surface. Like studying a depraved work of art, Misha stares down into the swirls and frantic fingerprints. It's beautiful, an image his brain is going to come back to over and over in the future.

"Mr. Collins, please..."

The plea comes again, more strangled. The flush on Jensen's face is nearly as red as the blooming pattern on his ass, but Misha's eyes are elsewhere. He watches the little hitches of Jensen's hips at the edge of the table. He knows Jensen's hard without reaching around.

"How can you like this?" Misha accuses, disbelief channeled from some deep, hidden place in his mind. "How can you let me do this?"

Jensen doesn't answer, of course. And Misha finds he doesn't particularly want him to.

Misha doesn't outweigh Jensen by much, has always considered himself on the lean side of attractive, but he feels powerful. It's addictive and powerful and Misha leashes that heady feeling when he picks up the beer bottle that had touched Jensen's lips so obscenely earlier. Things are about to get much, much dirtier.

"We shouldn't leave things lying around," Misha says, setting it on the table. His fingers detour on the way back, slipping through the saliva connecting Jensen's mouth to the table. Wet, he brings them back and puts pressure on Jensen's hole, heat surrounding his entire hand. Jensen's spine tenses but he doesn't buck away from the pressure of Misha's fingers, allowing the intrusion into his tight ass. 

Misha wants nothing more than for Jensen to _take_ – no words, no reactions, no reciprocation – but the teenager's arousal is painted on the table and on his clothing. Misha's free hand is covered in paint, leaving possessive prints all over the back of Jensen's shirt, bright marks contrasting with the dark gray.

Jensen's hole swallows two of Misha's fingers, his knuckles rubbing together inside Jensen's body. The teenager is panting, open-mouthed cries against the table, but mixed in are calls for _more, deeper_. Giving Jensen another finger would shift the balance of control and that's the last thing Misha wants. Instead, he picks up the beer bottle, amber drops clinging to the thick brown glass.

With no warning, Misha replaces his fingers with the bottleneck, holding the breath in his lungs as cold glass spears between Jensen's cheeks, invading him brutally and impersonally.

"No," Jensen moans. "That's not..."

"It's what I'm giving you right now," Misha says, leaving it as a commandment not to be questioned.

Fucking the bottle in and out smoothly – Misha has no desire to actually harm Jensen – tempers his needs for only a short time. He's jealous of the bottle, wanting that tightness wrapped around his cock, not some extension of his body. Jensen should feel Misha, warm, living and throbbing, and not the unforgiving width of the bottle. And Misha _needs_ to feel Jensen; the delicious reactions of the teenager’s body are wasted on an inanimate object.

The bottle comes out, a quick tug and a sharp cry bursting from Jensen’s throat. He’s begging for more – at least that’s what Misha thinks he hears – while Misha unzips his slacks and tugs his cock out from his boxers. No need, and no time, to undress properly, Misha just wants to be inside Jensen as soon as possible.

Jensen rocks back against Misha’s pelvis before he’s fully seated, ass swallowing Misha’s cock in one go. Misha’s long past worrying about a condom – protection would be the least of his problems if he and Jensen were discovered. His lungs are tight, air barely able to escape as he fucks Jensen steadily.

What’s nirvana to Misha must still not be enough for Jensen, his narrow hips thrusting out of time with Misha’s rhythm, searching for some other kind of stimulation. His blown pupils, overtaking the green irises, land on the bottle Misha had set aside. Jensen’s fingers inch towards the filthy beer bottle, closing around the glass and bringing it to his mouth.  
Misha stops breathing.

The devil in Jensen's smile comes out to play, possessing the young man's body and torturing Misha in whole new ways. He deserves no less, after all. Jensen's lips are wrapped around the bottle, coating the neck liberally with spit. Blowing it, for all intents and purposes. Misha imagines using the bottle on Jensen's ass again, fitting it back in Jensen's hole along with his own cock, breaking every limit Jensen has. For now he allows Jensen to spit-roast himself, storing every image in vivid Technicolor to revisit later.

Jensen’s a fucked-out mess, sweat mixing with paint on the table. He screams, the bottle gagging the sharper edges of every sound, but continues to suck and moan as Misha drills deeper.

Misha can’t stop himself from coming, orgasm held at bay for far too long. He explodes into Jensen, feels his own come sloppy and wet around his cock, knowing that if he pulls out right now, he’d drag a messy trail of semen out with him. But that’s its own kind of temptation. Instead, he waits, feels the aftershocks quake through his body and nearly dies when Jensen’s hole tightens even further around him as the teenager comes, untouched, against the table.

Muscles in atrophy from pleasure, Misha has no choice but to pull out and lean on the table to keep his balance. Jensen’s spine sags, weight on his elbows so he doesn’t collapse on the floor.

“Mr. Collins?”

Misha snaps at the low whisper of his name. He can’t bear to talk to Jensen; he’s already fucked up unforgivably tonight.

"Get out of here."

Jensen doesn’t say anything else, keeping his face turned away as he squats down to find his jeans and hastily pulls them up over his raw skin. Misha restrains his primal side, leashing the urge to demand that Jensen remain exposed and vulnerable, putting Misha's work on display. He can't move to give Jensen space, not even to tuck his softening dick back in his pants. His feet are cemented to the floor, heavy with guilt but dead from shock.

Never once does Jensen look back as he dresses and gathers his things. He's a mess with his paint-stained shirt and blotchy complexion, red-rimmed eyes and drooping eyelids, but Misha doesn’t offer any kind of help, Misha simply lets the teenager walk out of the studio without another word, body coming out of shock only when he's completely alone.

Later when he's home, Misha can't eat. He keeps a tight rein on his thoughts and tries to meditate the want away. But the image of Jensen's upturned ass, red from Misha's hand, is stubborn and it sticks. He's going to need something a hell of a lot stronger than meditation to control himself tonight.

~~~

The bell rings at the end of second period and Misha stands at the door while his advanced photography class files out into the melee. Students fight for space in the hallway, a tempting press of flesh on a normal day, but Misha schools his urges, watching with more detachment than usual.

Until _he_ walks by.

Misha sees the shirt before he sees the face, an obscene pattern of paint smeared across heather gray. He has to lean against the doorjamb because his knees wobble alarmingly. Jensen walks by him, the barest of nods given in Misha's direction. Young hips swaying, slender throat exposed by the t-shirt's stretched out collar.

As Jensen passes by, Misha fails to look away. For that, he's able to see the back of Jensen's shirt, see the handprints he'd left there the night before.

Jensen is taunting him. Bold-faced and intentional. Behind his back, Misha’s fingernails dig into the wooden door, anchoring him lest he shove his way through the throng to get to Jensen.

Misha promised himself that he’d never let the darker side of his personality control him, never allow things to go too far. He wouldn’t be the kind of man who took advantage even when the opportunity was right there, spread-eagled in front of him.

But, Misha also thinks, things do change. 

It’s unavoidable.

 

FIN.


End file.
